


Begrudging Admiration

by fraufi666



Category: Political RPF - Australian 20th-21st c., Victorian State Politics
Genre: Admiration, Alternate Universe - Politics, Drabble, Drama, Jealousy, Lockdown laws, M/M, No O'Brien didn't actually do this, One-Sided Attraction, Poetry, Romance, Scheming, Slight reference to coronavirus, Suspense, Victorian Politics - Freeform, authoritative figures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 16:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30058545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraufi666/pseuds/fraufi666
Summary: After a horrible accident, Daniel Andrews lies in hospital to recuperate. Michael O’Brien comes to see him, with a startling confession to make.
Relationships: Daniel Andrews/Michael O'Brien
Kudos: 1





	Begrudging Admiration

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an AU. Although I have used real people and political figures this is entirely a work of fiction. All romantic encounters, events and insinuations are from my imagination. I mean no disrespect to any of the people depicted. I am also in no way politically biased.

He walked the through the white sterile halls, watching the way nurses and doctors rushed yet another ill person on a gurney. The waiting room was crowded with a group of very exhausted, pale faces that barely looked up at him as they watched the television overhead. Usually he was always so curious about current affairs, but knew that if he went over to have a proper look at what was being spoken about, he would run the risk of being recognised.

Hospitals were always such a dismal sight, especially given the way they featured more and more on television ever since the coronavirus matter started. But it was all the fault of Daniel Andrews. If it were not for him, businesses would be running like normal.

Michael O’Brien turned away, knowing he was only here for one task, and on task only. With some relief, he reached the reception desk.

“How may I help you sir?” The receptionist asked timidly. Judging by her nervousness, he knew that she was not a Liberal supporter.

“I would like to see someone...” O’Brien said, in hesitation, “Daniel Andrews?”

There was a look of surprise in her young, yet weary eyes before she quickly consulted the computer monitor.

“Room 249, sir.”

“Thank you.” He replied gratefully, turning around to make his way to the room.

“Wait...you’re not who I think you are, are you?”

He turned back, slightly baffled. Was it worth telling her? Or would this merely attract unwanted attention from the press? Before he could think of a safe answer, an elderly woman stepped forward, barking out her own inquiry.

O’Brien gave a sigh of relief, quickly walking towards the elevator. That was too close. He could not risk having his photo snapped by the media. What would they say if they saw him at the Alfred Hospital, looking for his political opponent? Would they assume him being too soft in going out of his way to care for Dictator Dan? Or would they respect him for seeing Andrews beyond his politics? He smiled grimly to himself at the thought.

 _No_. Nobody would like him caring about the Premier. Come to think of it, neither did he. Noticing an orderly run towards the elevator, he quickly pressed the button that would close the door. A glimpse of an angry face flashed back at him, but he knew that this was for the best. He could not risk any more awkward close encounters. 

To his relief, he found the room without anyone else noticing him. Quickly, he closed the door behind him. Even though he knew why he was here, nothing prepared him for the sight before him.

On the bed, his rival lay. He was sleeping soundly, his characteristic spectacles off and sitting on the bedside table. Without his suit, he was almost unrecongisable. The white, short-sleeved top the hospital had dressed him in gave Andrews a youthful look. The Premier’s ruddy cheeks were pale, his eyes dark after so many sleepless nights. But now, he was finally resting. Numerous _Get Well Soon_ cards surrounded them. Even a tacky, colourful balloon with the same message was tied to the bedframe.

O’Brien did not bring anything tangible with him, but he pulled up a chair nearby and sat down, looking at the politician forlornly. What he had was far more important, and was weighing down on him heavily.

“Hello Dan…” He said finally. “It’s me, Michael.”

Andrews remained fast asleep, not even stirring. Could he even hear what he was saying? O’Brien had heard of people saying how even coma patients could hear things around them, but he was not sure how true this was. Still, he felt compelled to speak. The thought of the Premier slipping down the stairs and hurting his back gave him more guilt than he could imagine.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, but I really hope you feel better soon. I know I said this on Twitter, but it’s not quite the same as saying it to you in person.” O’Brien admitted. He noticed one of the Premier’s arms were dangling off the side of the bed. Awkwardly, he took hold of it. It slightly smooth and O’Brien tried not to think about it as he moved it back on the bed.

“There, that’s better.” He said to himself, although making Andrews slightly more comfortable would never make up for what he had done. “Such a nightmare getting here.” He grumbled, looking at the Premier’s sleeping face, “I couldn’t have my morning coffee because the café I often frequent has been closed down, no doubt thanks to your strict lockdown policy. Do you have any idea how many businesses have suffered thanks to you?” For a moment, he felt furious, but then remembered how vulnerable and helpless Andrews looked sleeping there, unable to even defend himself. The stark white hospital room was a far cry from the cushioned, green seats of parliament and the Premier did not have the strength.

O’Brien sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be bringing politics into this. I can’t imagine how much pain you are in. And this is all my fault, I’m really sorry, Dan.” His voice wavered and he took a few breaths, trying to stop himself from breaking down. “You of all people know how hard it is to be liked. Goodness, you’re Dictator Dan.” He exhaled, clenching his fists, getting so frustrated from seeing so many of those cards. It was a frequent reminder of what he craved for but could not have. Even the Labor Headquarters was having new flowers placed on its steps every single day since he was in hospital.

“…But at least you are known for something. Barely anyone knows who I am.” 

He could hear a few footsteps coming and quickly stopped, not wanting to risk their conversation being overheard. The footsteps grew fainter and fainter and he was able to sit easy. With burning curiosity, he went over to the bedside table, picking up the cards and having a read of them. He half-expected the cards to just have generic messages, with a “To Dan”, an already written message and a name of the person who sent him the card, much like his own birthday cards (if by chance he was given any). But to his disappointment, they were all full of heart-felt messages that made him feel sick to his stomach.

_You’re the best Premier in the world. Please get better soon._

_I stand with you Dan. Hope you have a speedy recovery._

_Victoria cannot run without you Dan. Get well soon for all of us._

O’Brien placed the cards back on the table, his heart racing. It was better for him to have never read them at all, for they had made him feel worse. Even though the accident that the Premier had suffered was going to keep him out of the public eye for a while, Victorians were still thinking of him. Why were there so many bleeding hearts for a man who destroyed the nation’s economy? It was almost like the Chinese people still praising Mao to this day. But it was perhaps a little too cruel to compare him to someone as bloodthirsty as that.

He looked around the room to make sure that nobody else was around before leaning in close, his lips only inches away from the Premier’s ear.

“I really am sorry.” He whispered, “I did not think it would turn out this way. I only wanted you to have a twisted ankle and some weeks off from parliament, not this.” Instinctively, he reached up to touch the pale cheek of the other man. Andrews did not even flinch. “You have no idea how hard this has been for me…to be mocked by supporters for not taking a strong enough stance. At least you have the guts to make an unpopular decision…I…I’m a coward.”

He swallowed the lump that was coming up in his throat, threatening him to break his carefully constructed façade. It was only a week ago when he had rang up a cleaner, putting a wad of cash into his calloused hands as he urged him to thoroughly scrub the steps of the Premier’s holiday house.

_“Just don’t bother getting rid of the suds. The sun will dry it all up soon.”_

The cleaner was at first hesitant, but upon seeing the money, was happy to obey. Such was the case for those with low-income jobs; they took anything they could get. It was probably the first time anyone from a working class background had smiled at him. It was a happy moment for him too. With Andrews having a slight injury, he would be out of work long enough for O’Brien to make a stronger presence and build on his image. Dictator Dan would no longer be a trending topic on social media.

But upon hearing about the extent of the injury, O’Brien felt nothing but regret.

“There is something that I haven’t told anyone, not even my wife.” O’Brien said quietly, letting go of the other man’s cheek. “I’ve been trying to make sense of it myself…it’s not easy being the Leader of the Opposition. But seeing how popular, how much your constituents love and respect you makes me very envious. I…I could only dream of being that well-liked by anyone. Even my own party members don’t support me. Tim Smith has been an absolute nightmare, and I’m sorry he’s been saying such slander about you, he’s impossible to control.” A slow hum of a machine behind him momentarily interrupted his thoughts.

“My point is…is that...Well, despite all your horrible decisions, I have come to…”

As if to protect himself, his hand flew to his mouth, covering it up. He could not bring himself to continue. Even though Andrews was asleep, he was still so nervous about saying the next words out loud, for it would make the thought a reality. Was he really ready for this? Was Andrews ready for it as well?

O’Brien reached over to touch Andrews’ hand, yet his hand hovered for a moment. Fear was holding him back. But the weight in his heart was almost lifted. He had to push himself just a little bit longer.

Finally, his hand touched the Premier’s, before closing his fingers over it. He sighed. It felt so natural for some reason, almost as if he were holding the hand of his wife.

Perhaps what he wanted to say would be better conveyed in the words of the poet from his home country, William Butler Yeats.

Still holding his rival’s hand, O’Brien began to recite a poem from memory.

 _The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told;  
I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart,  
With the earth and the sky and the water, remade, like a casket of gold  
_ _For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.*_

As soon as he had finished, he felt fingers close on his own. He flinched, realising that Andrews had woken up and quickly drew away. But before he had time to get up and leave the room, the Premier had opened his eyes.

“That’s only the second half of the poem, Michael.” Andrews responded calmly, a small smile on his face.

“How much did you hear?” O’Brien asked in paranoia. He hoped that at least Andrews would not remember him holding onto his hand. After all, he had only just woken up.

“Everything, Michael. Everything.”

“Why aren’t you upset then?” The Opposition Leader asked in surprise. “Look at what I did to you. I-I’ve completely put your health and life at risk.”

“As a matter of fact, only a few hours before you arrived, the doctors said that I have not suffered from any permanent damage from my spinal cord. I was quite lucky actually. Just need to stay at home for six weeks and see the physio.” Andrews responded, looking incredibly proud of himself.

Seeing the colour return on the Premier’s cheeks made O’Brien feel better. He was back to his old self again.

“So…” O’Brien began, still tense. “You’re _not_ going to hold this against me?” He could not believe that Andrews was so good at pretending to be asleep. Then again, pretending was something all politicians were skilled at. He just hoped that maybe the smile on the Premier’s face after hearing the poem was anything but fake.

Andrews looked up, his eyes distant as he noticed something overhead. For a moment, O’Brien thought he was ignoring him, but as he followed his gaze, he realised that the Premier was watching something on the television. Although the volume was down, he could see exactly what was happening.

Even though he had orchestrated a plan to ensure that Andrews had suffered from a loss of popularity from a prolonged absence, it was clearly not enough. A dark-haired man with a toothy grin was holding a press conference. O’Brien’s head was spinning. He knew of this man’s ambitions, but never, did he think he would do this right at this very crucial moment when he was only starting to improve the party’s popularity. Below him read a caption that caused his hands to shake uncontrollably.

_Brad Battin contests for Liberal leadership._

Andrews looked up at the mortified expression of the Opposition Leader as he tried to process everything he had seen on the television.

“…I think there is more for you to worry about than just me.”

**Author's Note:**

> *Footnotes for explanations: 
> 
> “The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told….”: This was a reference from W.B. Yeats’ poem “The Lover tells of the Rose in his Heart”. I have no idea if Michael O’Brien is a fan of his work, but I figured it would be fitting considering that the author also comes from Ireland.


End file.
